


Spare Parts

by Gargant



Category: Tales of Xillia
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 09:22:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28811064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gargant/pseuds/Gargant
Summary: He wakes up to a cool, sterile room, and thinks this may be the last time he ever gets to fuck up a fractured dimension this badly. [Written for Bad Things Happen Bingo.]
Kudos: 1





	Spare Parts

**Author's Note:**

> Who's the worst person Rideaux could meet in a fractured dimension, and why do I treat my favourites this way?

He wakes up to a cool, sterile room, and thinks this may be the last time he ever gets to fuck up a fractured dimension this badly.  
  
His arms and legs are secured with stiff fastenings at wrist and ankle. Medical restraints, built into the design of the table and intended to protect a patient from harming themselves. Rideaux strains against them now, knowing how fruitless it is, and considers how many times he has been the one tightening restraints like these.  
  
Tightening restraints _just_ like these.

Oh. Oh, _fuck_.

He knows where he is.

* * *

There's no way to pass the time.

That's a lie. There are all kinds of things he can do. He can count ceiling tiles, then count the cracks that lace between them, then multiple the numbers against themselves over and over until the figures grow too vast to handle, and then he can start all over again. He can scream himself hoarse with threats and demands. He never knew his invectives could grow so wild. He can try to imagine what everyone back home might be doing right now; Bakur in his office, ruining lives. Julius brooding at his desk, pathetic and lonely. He can pretend as though they've noticed his absence. Pretend they might be wondering what's become of him. Maybe even missing him.

See? He's even found time to make jokes.

But there's no way to make _sense_ of how long he's been here. The most terrifying thought is that it might have been no time at all. That this slow death might have barely begun, and he's already gone a bit mad with it.

It's cold in here. That's the reason his hands won't stop shaking.

* * *

There are no windows. The neon lighting never dims. It might have been days by now. It _must_ have been. His stomach isn't growling any more. Instead it churns itself smaller and smaller, a stone being rolled by an endless tide. Eventually it will smooth away to nothing, and perhaps then he'll finally die. Starved to death on a medical table? Fuck. What a sad fucking joke.

He blacks out, sometimes. Sleep can't be the right word for it, because he never feels rested. His entire back side feels raw beneath him—he'll have bedsores if he isn't allowed to move soon.

Good thing he'll be dead before they can get too bad.

* * *

He wakes up to a cool, sterile room, and a needle being threaded into his hand.

Rideaux tenses.

Standing over him, Rideaux finishes fixing the cannula into place and smiles down at him. "Let's start by getting some fluids into you, shall we? Can't have you dying just yet."

Rideaux stares up at himself. He's looking well, by his standards. Smug, full-cheeked, freshly pressed. He guesses _he_ would look smug too, if he were the one standing up.

"They'll come looking for me," He says, like an idiot. He's not well. He would have thought of a much better lie if he hadn't been left to starve down here in this medical tomb.

Himself sneers at him. "Oh, please. _You_ know that isn't true, and I'm _you_. If you want to try and scare me you're going to have to do much better than that."

Rideaux's already decided what he's going to do with himself. He can hear it, recognise it in himself. Nothing he says is going to change his own mind.

"This isn't going to save you," He hisses instead, because there's nothing left here for him to reason with. Because he's going to die, screams unheard, so he might as well drag his own bastard self down with him. "This dimension is a fake. You'll be gone like all the rest, no matter what you do to me. You're _dust_." And it's true, and it's funny enough that Rideaux manages to grit out a smile across the grimace of his dry lips. "You'll die sick and desperate and alone. Just like me."

Rideaux lifts a scalpel in one gloved hand, and looks down at him. "Are you done?" He asks, the way a parent might demean the tantrums of their errant child.

And he _is_ done. He knows himself. He knows what he would do with a spare. "Are you going to kill me first?" He asks, knowing the answer.

At first he thinks himself isn't going to say it. But then he places one long finger beneath his chin, tilts his head up and leans so close that they almost touch. He can smell his own breath.

Sterile, like everything else.

"We'll see," Rideaux says, and bares his teeth.


End file.
